Christmas: A magic moment to remember

A magic moment I remember
I raised my eyes and you were there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that is beautiful and rare.

— Translated from Alexander Pushkin’s “A Magic Moment I Remember”

By Anushka Anastasia Solomon Colorado Voices

The day after Thanksgiving, I assembled the three parts of my Christmas tree, hung ornaments, switched the lights on. The Christmas tree was a gift from Anonymous. Last year, when I so longed for a Christmas tree, the men in my household wanted nothing to do with it; Christmas was just too much emotional effort and expense.

Many of my American friends feel the same way. “I hate the holidays,” “I cannot afford Christmas,” “It is the worst time of the year,” “I am so lonely” “I am so depressed” is the litany I often hear. “It seems like the worst things happen at the end of the year.” “This time last year, my husband/wife/son/mother/father/dog/cat or bird died…or I lost my job, my husband left me or I found out my wife was having an affair, or I was diagnosed with cancer … .”

I was born a Hindu and fled Malaysia after conversion to Christianity with my husband and son. As a little Hindu girl, growing up in my father’s house in Malaysia, I used to stand at the window. Our neighbors at the time in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, were Australian. They had a tall Christmas tree and a piano.

On Christmas Eve, if I positioned myself at the window, three quarters of the way up of the staircase in my father’s house and looked across the balcony, I could see our neighbors Christmas tree and hear piano music, singing and laughter. I would stand there past midnight and wish that I were invited and inside.

I would go over in my mind what I’d wear and how I would conduct myself. I imagined the fireplace, the chimney and the snow. It did not matter that it does not snow in Malaysia, windows have iron grills like prison bars and houses have neither fireplace nor chimney. I never thought about presents because the idea was foreign to me. My father had always been very indulgent of his only daughter and brought home beautiful clothes, jewelry, books, puzzles, coloring books, toys and dolls.

Like my mother, father loved to give us no occasion gifts. He would drive into the porch after work, beaming and open the booth or trunk of his white Volvo. “What is it, papa? What is it?” I’d ask. “Look and see,” he’d say. I remember one dress in particular. It was dark green, with cap sleeves and lace in the shape of Christmas trees all around the edge.

Looking back, I understand that it gave my Hindu father great joy to give. Even when he lost his government job and our family plunged into the darkness, my parents celebrated Deepavali with oil lamps, visits to the temple, new clothes and all kinds of cakes and sweets. We were celebrating the triumph of good over evil and even though my father became rather more grim after the loss of his government job, he would always respond to the Gods, as he understood them.

One Deepavali Eve, I was caned with a switch cut off the jambu tree and forced to stay up late into the night doing hundreds of math problems. My crime? I had obtained 96% on a math test and missed 4 points. Tears soaked the pages of the workbook. My father finally let me go to bed when my mum intervened saying, “Hasn’t she done enough problems to satisfy you? It is late, tomorrow is Deepavali, let her go to bed.”

I never forgot that Deepavali Eve because when Christmas rolled around soon after, I stood at the window, three quarters of the way up the staircase, looked straight across the balcony into my Australian neighbors’ house and prayed, yes prayed to God that someday, I would be invited and inside my neighbors’ house. That year, the Australians moved. Although I did not know them, I was bereft. I had for so long imagined their invitation and their welcome that I felt like I had been robbed. I recovered of course as children do and forgot the prayer.

I enjoyed all the festivals in Malaysia. Muslim neighbors moved in after the Australians left and they invited us, so I had a great time in Uncle and Aunty Nordin’s house and Uncle and Aunty Syed’s house. Unlike the Australian neighbors, my Muslim neighbors would send food across the fence and stop to talk. They had no Christmas tree, or lights, or presents, or piano music.

So, what about Christmas? What is the heart of the matter? I think the lesson I have learned from my experiences of Christmas from the outside looking in and from the inside, looking up, is that the heart matters. A Christian is not Christmas; Christ is Christmas. God saw and heard my heart uttering its prayer at the window of my father’s house. God also heard and read the hearts of my parents who tried in their lifetime to give me the education and future they could conceive of and imagine. In heaven now and looking down, I hope Ariyathavaletchumme and V.Balakrishnan are proud of me. My conscience is as clear as the Colorado sky; I continue to honor them, having given my soul to God as I understand Him.

This Christmas, I stood on the cusp of change. I am no longer a little girl at the window of my father’s house. This Christmas, I stood on the threshold of the seven continents, content like Iris de Menet to “Let the mystery be.”
Anushka Anastasia Solomon (solomon_rex@hotmail.com) is author of three poetry chapbooks and numerous essays, articles and short stories. She was on the 2002 Colorado Voices panel. Colorado Voices is an annual competition among writers vying for the opportunity to publish columns of regional interest in The Denver Post.

Vincent Carroll is The Denver Post's editorial page editor. He has been writing commentary on politics and public policy in Colorado since 1982 and was originally with the Rocky Mountain News, where he was also editor of the editorial pages until that newspaper gave up the ghost in 2009.

Guidelines: The Post welcomes letters up to 150 words on topics of general interest. Letters must include full name, home address, day and evening phone numbers, and may be edited for length, grammar and accuracy.

To reach the Denver Post editorial page by phone: 303-954-1331

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